Angel
by Shirl
Summary: It has been eight years since Christine last saw Erik. Circumstances bring them together again, and Christine's life is changed forever. Reviewers have described the fic as powerful, creepy & beautiful.


A/N: This is my first attempt at writing a Morbid Fanfic, and I'm planning on entering it into a contest. Hopefully I have succeeded. I'm sure you'll tell me if I haven't. :-) As you would probably expect, the theme is disturbing, so don't say I didn't warn you...

* * *

Christine did not know how long she had been sitting there, staring ahead blankly. Everything in the room looked normal: the top of the piano gleamed in the soft gaslight; the velvet curtains were drawn for privacy; Raoul's books were scattered across the table.

But nothing in her world would ever be normal again. All traces of Luc had already been removed from the room – his toys, favourite pillow, the stool he'd used to clamber onto the piano bench – all gone, as if they'd never existed.

As if her son had never existed.

She was roused from her stupor by a knock on the door. Even when it opened with a protesting creak, she did not avert her head.

"Christine, you have a visitor," her husband's voice called out.

"I do not wish to receive visitors," Christine retorted, clenching her fingers in her lap.

"Not even me?" asked a smooth, masculine voice.

Christine gasped, and then winced with pain. She'd dug her nails into her palms with such force, she expected to find blood on her pale hands. That voice, that angelic voice from her past.

_It can't be. _

Slowly, with fear and hope, she turned her head to find him standing there, tall and majestic.

Erik was cocooned in black, from his cloak to his boots. His figure was trim and fit, belying the eight years that had passed since she'd last seen him. Luminous green eyes bore down on her from behind a black mask that covered the top half of his face; no one could guess the deformity that lay hidden beneath it.

Christine rose to her feet and turned toward him. "What are you doing here?" she asked, proud that her voice did not falter.

Raoul stepped forward and came to her side. "I asked him to come," he informed her.

Christine frowned at her husband. "Why would you do that?"

"I'm very sorry about your son," Erik said. "Raoul told me about the accident."

"Thank you," Christine said automatically, though her eyes remained on Raoul. Her left eyebrow shot up as it always did when she was annoyed.

Raoul finally responded to her question. "You haven't been well, darling. And you've always spoken of the joy you felt when you sang with Erik."

"Raoul," Christine interrupted, her tone sharp, "that was a long time ago." Those confessions were private. Her cheeks burned, and she dared not look at Erik.

Raoul's hand settled on her shoulder. "I know. It's been far too long since you've immersed yourself in singing and music. You can't do it here. Not in this house. So, I've asked Erik to take you away."

Christine's eyes widened. Though she opened her mouth, Raoul continued. "Just for a while," he soothed. "You need to get some rest, and find some peace. Please, Christine, for your sake and mine. I know this will help you. I can't stand to see you wasting away here, day after day."

Biting her inner lip, Christine searched her husband's face. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her with reassurance. Luc had inherited his father's kind eyes.

"You trust him?" Christine questioned.

Raoul's smile became wry. "It may sound strange, but yes, I do. I know that he would never hurt you. Erik came here out of concern for you, not to help me. We have already made the arrangements. Your clothes and other necessities have been packed."

Christine felt her eyebrow arch of its own accord. "I don't seem to have much choice, do I?" she intoned. "I must retrieve something from my chamber first."

Raoul brushed his lips against her cheek. "That's fine. We'll be waiting by the front door."

As Christine passed Erik, she glanced upward. He inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable; the mask served to veil more than his disfigurement.

Once in her room, Christine picked up the small, framed portrait of her son. His lively intelligence was evident, even in this grainy photograph. She traced the outline of his wide, gap-toothed smile. Luc had lost his front tooth just days before the picture had been taken.

Pinpricks of tears stabbed behind Christine's eyes, and she swallowed the painful lump in her throat. Squeezing her eyes shut, she kissed the photograph.

Before leaving, she opened the wardrobe door. All of her dresses were gone, save for a few elegant ballroom gowns that she was certain she'd never wear again. She had no idea when the clothes had been taken. But then, she reminded herself, she'd worn only her mourning dress since Luc's death. That was really all she needed.

Christine made her way down the stairs, and her husband's voice floated up to reach her ears.

"Thank you again, Erik. And as we discussed, you must not allow Christine to see Luc's grave before she leaves."

Christine's mouth compressed to a thin line. She reached the bottom of the staircase and marched toward the two men. They moved apart when she neared, having obviously been deep in conversation.

"I'm ready," she announced.

If Raoul noticed her glare, he ignored it. He wrapped her woollen cloak about her shoulders. As Christine tilted her head for a kiss, she received it, but on each cheek rather than her upturned lips.

"I love you," Raoul said, his voice soft. "Never forget that. I'll be here when you're ready to return."

Christine nodded, her throat seeming clogged again. She stepped into the night and followed Erik to his carriage. The moon was high and full, infusing the grounds with a ghostly white glow. A fine mist hovered in the air. Christine heard the snorting of a horse as they approached. The sleek black animal tossed its head, as if impatient with the long wait. Erik patted its flanks, and the horse quieted.

Christine regarded the hand that Erik now extended to her. "I don't need your help," she stated.

A flash of emotion reflected in his eyes – the first that she had seen tonight – yet she couldn't name it.

"Very well," Erik said.

When he turned around, Christine broke into a run. She fled toward the rear of the house, her skirts lifted and clutched in her hands, praying not to turn her ankle on the uneven ground. Erik called her name from behind. She ran faster.

After passing the fountain and the gazebo, she threw open the iron gate and collapsed at the foot of Luc's grave. He was buried here in the Chagny's family plot. Of course she would see it before leaving.

_How dare Raoul_

"I've come to say goodbye, little one. But only for a while," Christine murmured. She dug her hands into the damp earth, remembering how it had felt to run her fingers through Luc's unruly curls. "I'll be back soon. I promise." Her voice almost broke on the last word.

"Come, Christine. Don't do this to yourself," Erik said, his tone gentle.

She had forgotten that he could be gentle. This time, she accepted his hand as he helped her to her feet. As she rose, her gaze slid to the adjacent tombstone.

Christine froze. An icy hand clawed at her heart. "What…I…don't understand," she stammered. Her finger shook as she pointed at the grey stone. "Erik? What does this mean?"

Erik grabbed her shoulders and tried to steer her away. "It's nothing," he said. "We must go."

Christine twisted out of his hold and fell to the ground. Though it was dark, there was enough moonlight to make the etching on the tombstone readable:

_Raoul Chagny  
1860 – 1888  
Loving son, father, and husband. _

A tight knot seized her stomach. She managed to speak, though her words were emitted in breathless gasps. "Is this why Raoul didn't want me to come here? What is going on?"

Erik had become mute. His eyes were filled with pity as he looked down at her huddled form. Christine's nostrils flared. "Answer me!" She pounded the dirt with her fist. A buzzing grew in her head, nagging the back of her mind. She ignored the intrusion.

When another figure emerged from the shadows, Christine assumed it must be Raoul. But as the form drew near, her mouth dropped open. "Madame Giry," she exclaimed.

Christine had kept in contact with her former ballet mistress over the years, but she could not fathom what would bring her here in the middle of the night. Before she could speak, Madame Giry addressed her unspoken question.

"Do not fret, child. Your husband called upon me as well, in case I could be of any assistance." She jerked her head toward the mysterious tombstone. "Don't let that horrid thing upset you. Someone placed it there as a sick prank. Raoul is aware of it, and has already told your grounds staff to remove it in the morning."

Most of the tension eased from Christine's body, yet a shiver still coursed through her. "Who would do such a thing?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "The world is full of cruel people, I'm afraid. An unfortunate fact of life." Her voice became brisk. "Now, Christine, you must allow Erik to take you away from all this. I agree with your husband. It's the best remedy for you right now."

Christine responded to the authority in Madame Giry's voice, just as she had as a child. When she stood up, the blood drained from her head, making her dizzy. Nausea curled in her stomach.

As Christine's vision faded to black, she heard Erik shout her name.

XxXxXx

Christine awakened with her cheek snuggled against a soft pillow. Blinking, she sat up and took in her surroundings – the array of lit candles, the comfortable bed – and she knew she had been here before.

"How are you feeling, my dear?" asked Erik's silken voice.

Her pulse jumped as she looked up at him. "I feel fine. You move as silently as ever, I see."

Erik chuckled. "Yes, I've always had that ability. If you are feeling up to it, I would like to show you something."

As an afterthought, Christine's hand flew to her hair; it felt matted and tangled. She must look frightful.

"You look fine," Erik assured her, as if he'd read her mind. "Perhaps thinner and waner than I would like to see, but you've been through a terrible ordeal. You're still a beautiful woman, Christine."

A hot flush rushed to Christine's face, and it spread to warm her entire body. "How is it that you haven't aged at all?" she asked.

In answer, Erik's lip curved in an enigmatic smile. Christine slipped her hand into his, aware of how her fingers disappeared within his grasp. She followed willingly, deeper into Erik's lair. Everything was exactly as she remembered: rich, Persian rugs; the ornate organ; a grand library of books; stacks of sketches, paintings, and compositions; a hundred candles.

"You've brought me back here," Christine mused aloud.

"Of course," Erik said. "Where else could we make music together? I've changed nothing since you left." He led her to the pipe organ and sat down. "I wrote this for you."

Christine scanned the thick pile of sheet music. "All of this?" she asked.

"Yes." Erik lifted his gaze, and Christine stared into the eyes that had haunted her over the years. "I never dreamed you would actually return to sing for me," Erik said, "but here you are."

"Only for a short while," she reminded him.

He glanced away. "Yes, a short while."

Christine studied his profile. "Are you happy, Erik?"

He appeared startled by the question. "Happy? Are you mocking me?"

"No! Of course not," Christine protested. "I've often wondered how you fared after, well, after things ended so badly. I sometimes asked Madame Giry, but she would never give me a true answer."

With a sigh, Erik said, "I suppose I am not unhappy. I continue to live here, as you can see. Managers of my opera house have come and gone, and mostly do my bidding. The only real happiness I've known is with you, but those moments were too fleeting. That's why I agreed to take you under my wing, one last time."

"As long as you understand it's only temporary," she said, emphasizing the point yet again.

Irritation crossed his features. "Yes, I understand. You need not keep reminding me."

"I'm sorry."

Erik waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Enough talk. I want you to sing."

He pushed the papers toward her, and she gathered up the precious composition in her hands. As Erik played, the sound of the organ swirled around her, reeling her back in time. The melody was unfamiliar, but the joy of singing was not. She'd forgotten the brilliance of Erik's mind, transposed into his beautiful music. Her voice was tentative at first. Then it grew stronger until it soared, freeing her from the constant pain in her heart.

Unable to remain still, Christine moved about as she sang. Her hip knocked against an easel, and as she reached out to steady it, something spilled down her dress. The red paint was shiny and vivid against the plain black fabric.

It looked like blood.

Christine inhaled sharply. She swiped at the stain with her hand. Now it was worse; blood streaked across her palm.

Whimpering, she stumbled backwards. The sheets of music she'd held fluttered all around, drifting to the stone floor.

Erik rushed to her side. "What is it? Have you hurt yourself?"

Christine held out a trembling hand. "Blood."

After surveying the scene, Erik withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and took her hand. "It's only paint."

"Blood," Christine repeated, with a child-like stubbornness. The intrusive buzzing in her brain returned, needling her with its growing intensity. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. "I have to go home. Something is wrong. I can feel it." She turned her beseeching gaze upward. "Please, Erik, take me home."

"You're not making sense," Erik said, speaking slowly and carefully. "We've only just arrived. You must stay here with me."

Christine pulled away from him. "I demand that you take me home. I am not your prisoner! Raoul needs me. I know it."

Erik stared at her, his lips pursed as if deep in thought. "I think it's time I reveal the truth to you, my dear. I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but you give me no choice."

"What are you talking about?"

"Raoul's tombstone is no prank. It is very real. Madame Giry lied to protect you."

Christine was close to tearing her hair out. Every word Erik spoke was a maddening riddle. "Protect me? What do you mean?"

"Raoul is dead." Erik's tone was flat and void of emotion.

Christine verged on laughter, but feared the bubble would burst into hysteria. "Dead? You know as well as I do that he's not dead. He brought you into our home. He asked you to take care of me."

With a growl, Erik sprang forward and captured her arms. "Think, Christine! Raoul always hated me. He would never ask for my help. It was Madame Giry that called upon me. Your guilty mind has been playing tricks on you. You replaced Madame Giry with your dead husband."

The pounding in Christine's head was becoming unbearable; she thought she would vomit from the force of it. "Why would I do that?" she whispered.

"Because you killed him. You killed Raoul."

Christine's stomach heaved. She clamped one hand over her mouth. Then she beat her fists against Erik's chest. "You're lying! Why are you doing this to me?" she wailed.

Erik made no effort to stop her. Though she was half his size, the fury behind each blow must have made them hurtful. Her breath burned raggedly in her throat. Tears blinded her vision. Choked by sobs, she slumped to the ground. "No," she moaned. "I couldn't have. I loved him."

Erik kneeled beside her. "I know you did. Tell me about your son, Christine."

"Luc?"

"Yes. Tell me how he died."

Confused by the shift in topic, Christine spoke haltingly. "He…that is, Raoul, was teaching him to ride. Luc was only seven years old. And he was small for his age. He could barely reach the piano bench, so he'd use a stool to climb onto it."

Christine almost smiled from the memory. Luc would often bang on the keys and beg his mother to sing along.

Fresh tears threatened to spill over. Christine sniffled and said, "I thought he was much too young to ride, but Raoul insisted that he had learned at Luc's age. Luc enjoyed the lessons so much, I didn't have the heart to intervene. Then one day, Raoul came to me, begging for my forgiveness. Luc had fallen from the horse and broken his neck. He was dead. My son was dead." She paused, aware that she was hurtling toward a revelation – one that she was powerless to stop.

"Go on," Erik said.

Her words tumbled forth. "I was inconsolable. So was Raoul, but we grieved separately. Whenever we did speak, we only argued. I was consumed by anger and bitterness. I didn't recognize myself anymore. I placed all of the blame for Luc's death on Raoul." She closed her eyes. "I don't know how it happened. We were fighting and I was in a rage. Somehow, a knife was in my hands and I stabbed him. I stabbed Raoul."

Christine's face crumpled, and she doubled over. "Oh my God. I killed him. I'm a murderer." She covered her face with both hands. Spasms wracked her body, but she was beyond crying. Rocking back and forth, she couldn't contain the high, keening sound that came straight from her soul.

Erik gathered her into his arms. He continued the rocking motion, and rubbed circles against her back. "My poor Christine," he crooned. "How you've suffered."

She clung to him, bunching his shirtfront between her fingers. "I don't deserve your pity. How can you even bear to look at me? I'm hideous."

Erik stroked her hair. "You mustn't blame yourself. You were under such strain, and simply snapped in the moment. It was a single second of madness."

Christine shook her head. "Take me back, Erik. I don't deserve to be here."

Erik's grip on her tightened with almost bruising force. "You can never go back. You see, Madame Giry summoned me because in the morning, you were going to be taken away – to an asylum."

Christine lifted her head, her mouth parting. Erik's eyes glittered with emerald sparks.

"Raoul's family, his damnable family," Erik cursed, "wanted you committed to an insane asylum. Madame Giry wasn't about to let that happen, and neither was I."

"So I'm to stay here with you…permanently?" Christine asked.

"I would be honoured if you would."

"And I could sing? Every day?" Hearing the eagerness in her own voice, Christine blushed.

Erik smiled and pressed his lips to her hand. "Yes, my dear. Every day. Nothing would make me happier."

"Then yes," she said, almost shyly. "I would like to stay."

When Christine attempted to stand, her wobbly legs failed her. Erik swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. As he laid her down, he said, "I think we've had enough excitement for one day. Get some rest." He kissed her brow, his lips lingering for longer than they should.

Christine sighed, and as he turned away, she said, "Erik? Thank you. You truly are my Angel."

Exhaustion crept upon her. In less than a minute, she drifted off to sleep.

XxXxXx

Christine wrinkled her nose. Her face was nestled against a scratchy fabric that was irritating her skin. Yawning, she opened her eyes. Alarm shot through her, making her stiffen with shock.

She was not in Erik's lair.

Her hand fluttered to her throat as she gradually pulled herself up. She was in a tiny room, bare of any furnishings, save for the rickety bed that she was sitting on. The greyish-coloured sheet beneath her felt rough to the touch. Dark stone walls closed in around her. A single window at the end of the room allowed meagre light to filter into the dimness of her quarters.

Christine dug the heel of her palm into her temple. Her heart was thumping madly, making her temples throb. She fought to remain calm against the tide of panic that threatened to overtake her. Despite her efforts to think, she could not begin to guess what had happened.

_Erik. Something has happened to Erik. _

Christine leapt to her feet and launched herself at the door. The handle was locked. She pounded on the wood, shouting, "Hello? Can anyone hear me? I demand to be let out! Hello?"

Her hand stung. Pain jolted up her arm with every blow. Gritting her teeth, she relentlessly beat against the wooden barrier.

She heard the snick of the lock turning.

Christine backed away, cradling her hand to her chest, breath caught in her throat.

The man that entered was slight of build with greying hair. His black suit was rumpled and ill-fitting. He pushed up the spectacles on his nose with one finger before closing the door behind him.

"You're causing quite a commotion, Christine," he said. Although it was a reprimand, his tone was mild.

"Who are you?" Christine demanded.

"My name is Doctor Benoit."

"Where am I?"

"Where do you think you are?" the doctor countered.

Christine's eyes narrowed. She had often played this game with Luc, bantering back and forth with question after question, seeing how far they could go. She wasn't about to indulge in that game now.

Christine tilted her chin up. "Since you're a doctor, I assume this is a hospital."

"It is a kind of hospital, yes."

She managed to speak past the dryness of her mouth. "What kind of hospital, exactly?"

Dr. Benoit's gaze was steady and not unkind. "We take care of those who are physically or mentally incapable of looking after themselves."

Her voice lowered to a whisper. "An asylum?"

"Yes."

Christine swallowed. "I don't understand. Where is Erik? He never would have left me here. Something must have happened to him. Where is he?"

Dr. Benoit breathed a sigh. He took a step forward. Christine took two steps backwards.

The man halted and clasped his hands. "Perhaps you should sit down."

"No, thank you," she said stiffly.

"All right. I'm sorry to tell you that we go through this almost every day. Every day for the past four months. There is no Erik. Perhaps he is someone from your past, or perhaps just a figment of your imagination. I've never been sure."

Christine gaped at him. "I assure you, Erik is very real. How dare you tell me otherwise! I don't know how I came to be here, but this is a mistake. A terrible mistake."

"Christine, listen to me very carefully," Dr. Benoit ordered. "You killed your husband, Raoul Chagny. You should have been executed, but the Chagny family took pity on you and sent you here instead. You have been here for four months, and here is where you will spend the rest of your life."

He paused to take a breath. The harshness of his voice eased somewhat, as he said, "Some days, you are more lucid than others. But most of the time, you exist in a dream world. A fantasy that your mind has conjured to escape your reality." He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "This is your reality, Christine. This asylum. And the sooner you accept it, the easier it will be for you."

Christine bit into her lip until she tasted blood. His every word hammered a nail into her coffin, and when it was sealed shut, all hope vanished. "Has no one ever come for me?" she asked in a small voice. "Erik? Madame Giry?"

"No."

Christine expected she'd burst into tears, but her eyes were dry. Dazed and numb, she mumbled, "I…I want to be alone now."

Dr. Benoit nodded. "It isn't all bad here, you know," he said, a little too heartily. "You seem to enjoy the art activities. Painting and sculpting. It's a shame you won't sing with the others. I hear you sometimes when I pass by your door. You have quite a lovely voice. Goodnight."

Alone once more, Christine staggered a few paces before falling to her knees. She couldn't face this reality. She refused to face it. "Erik, please come back to me," she begged aloud. "I need you. Why have you abandoned me? You promised to take care of me."

"I haven't abandoned you."

With a cry of relief, Christine turned toward his voice. Erik appeared from the darkest corner of her room and came to stand beside her. "Erik! I knew you were real. That doctor didn't believe me." She took comfort from his mere presence. Lifting her adoring gaze to his, she asked, "Can you help me escape?"

"Yes. Reach into your pocket."

Although puzzled, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her dress and withdrew an object. "It's a sculpting knife," Erik said. "I instructed you to hide it away during your last art lesson. It's not very sharp, but it will do. If you're ready."

She regarded the instrument dubiously. "But…that would be a sin," she said.

"It's the only way. That's all I can offer you."

Her lip trembled. "I'm afraid," she admitted.

"I know," he said gently. "But I'm right here."

Taking a deep breath, Christine gripped the knife with firm resolve. She smiled at Erik for the final time.

"Thank you, Angel."

THE END


End file.
